


O Brother Who Art Thou?

by oleanderedits



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead - All Media Types
Genre: AU (Canon Divergence), Daryl Dixon is Murphy MacManus, Explicit Language, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Off-screen death, Religious Themes, Series Re-write, Time Skips, What-If?, au (crossover), follows general canon storyline, walking saints
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderedits/pseuds/oleanderedits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They convinced him to take up the name of Daryl Dixon while he waited for his brother to get out of prison. Seven years and the end of the world later, all he has left is the handful of survivors from Atlanta and the remains of two very different lives he's not sure how to reconcile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miles Behind Us

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter is a re-post of the original short story I wrote in [The Saints are Coming](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4915207/chapters/11276068). Because of this, it does not follow the same chapter format as the rest of the fiction.

He hated Merle. The man was nothing but a coked up mess masquerading as a human. The exact kind of filth God had given him permission to kill for the greater good of the world. He was genuinely racist and not just throwing slurs around because that's how things were done and said in Boston. In Georgia, they were meant to be insults.

Worse yet, the fucker was ex-army. Sniper, even. He had the kind of training that made him genuinely dangerous to others if he ever decided to do something about his prejudice. Which he often did. He was in and out of holding cells more often across the last seven years than Murphy ( _Daryl, name is fucking Daryl now)_  had ever been in his life. A disgrace is what it was.

...

" _What makes ye think he'll go along with it?"_

" _You look like his brother. A little cleaner around the edges, but enough you could pass at a glance."_

" _So?"_

" _So, his brother died a year ago. Hunting accident. Shot through the chest just below his collarbone. Merle couldn't get him to a hospital soon enough and has been a drugged up mess since. He's so addled that if you show up with a scar and talking the right way, he won't know the difference."_

" _And my tats? Me being Catholic? The fact that I don't know a thing about their past?"_

…

He liked Merle. Despite the drugs and the jail time, Merle stuck by him. He often wasn't there and often got himself into a lot of shit, but he checked in at least once a month. He looked out for his 'baby brother'. Sent him money when he could. Smokes, too.

Daryl ( _Murphy, can't forget who I really am)_  mostly stuck to the backwoods near their father's house in the mountains of northern Georgia. Kept to himself and the family that had crawled out of the woodwork when he showed back up like he had never been gone. Merle stuck around long enough to introduce them and give a pointed threat to their father that Daryl pretended he didn't see. He wasn't a great brother, but he watched out for him.

…

" _Easy. Memory problems. A shot like that, with as much blood as was lost? It's believable."_

" _And the rest?"_

" _Lots of people find religion after a traumatic experience. And tattoos aren't uncommon to the crowd we're looking at putting you with."_

" _I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."_

" _You just broke out of the Hoag. A month after going in. You need to go to ground."_

" _I need to get back to me brother."_

…

Merle hadn't accepted his 'return' as easily as Smecker and Bloom had thought he would. He'd ranted and raved, thought he was seeing a ghost. Why he thought it was smart to punch a ghost, Murphy ( _Daryl, it has to be Daryl now)_  would never know. If he had been a ghost, Merle's fist would have just gone right through him. 'Cept he wasn't and it didn't. He knew the guy was strong, but  _Good Lord_  that had hurt.

The man stopped right after that, Daryl cursing him out and spitting blood. He was lucky he didn't lose a tooth. Said as much and had expected the man to keep coming at him. But Merle just stared, eyes wide. Murphy expected that if he ever lost Connor and suddenly got him back, he'd look a lot like the man standing over him.

…

" _They've already transferred him to a different prison. He'll be in solitary for at least a year. Even priests won't get to see him."_

" _You got me out!"_

" _You weren't in solitary. And we had men on the inside. We don't have that for him yet. We're not even sure where he's been moved to."_

" _You want me to just leave him there? For how long?"_

" _As long as it takes. We've already got Duffy and Dolly looking into the details. Their curiosity won't be suspect. Not with how involved they've been in your cases and Greenly's death. Most people think they have a personal vendetta against you over that. We can use it. But we have to be careful. Take our time."_

" _You have to be patient."_

…

It took almost two months for Merle to finally accept him as Daryl. And when he did it was like a floodgate had opened. Whatever Murphy told him about the tattoos and the conversion from Baptist to Chatholic and even the memory loss, Merle just ate it right up. He took the time to learn about who his brother was now.

And he took the time to teach Murphy who Daryl used to be. All the hunting they used to do together. How their mother died. How good Daryl was at school while Merle got himself put in and out of Juvie before joining the army as soon as he turned 18 just to get away from their father.

…

" _...can I write to him?"_

" _Once we find out where he is, yes. But you can't tell him where you are or that you're his brother. His letters will be read ahead of time."_

" _Then how am I gonna let him know I'm alright? For all he knows I got shot and 'm bleeding out in the gutter!"_

" _..."_

" _I can't let him think I'm dead."_

" _You can tell him you're a fan. Someone that has a brother and knows how important they are. That you admire him. You guys might not know it, but you have a large following that reaches across the country. People like you."_

" _Oh we know. We've met some. They were fucking annoying."_

…

Merle thought he was fucked in the head when he first found out he was writing to a Boston Saint. Called him a fag, Darleena, pushed him around for his 'celebrity crush'. He backed down after Murphy had enough of playing the submissive and contained younger brother and lashed out. He didn't take his brother yelling back at him like that very well. Flinched before he could get control of himself. Like he expected to be hit.

Daryl had backed down when he saw that. He'd seen it in others before. Abuse victims, mostly. He'd apologized for the outburst and Merle got on his case for being a pussy before leaving the house. He was gone for a week before Daryl found out he'd gotten himself put in the county lock up for drunk driving. He called for a ride back home when he got out since his license got revoked.

…

" _He's fucking blond."_

" _He's not blond. It's a light brown"_

_"Looks fucking blond from here."_

" _It's just the lighting. And from the other pictures we have, it looks like it's just something it does in the summer. When the sun is on it a lot more."_

" _...he doesn't have the mole. I ain't getting rid of that. No one's taking a knife to me face."_

" _You don't have to. Plenty of people develop moles later in life. It's not a big deal."_

…

One year passed into two. And two into four. And four into seven. Letters were exchanged and Daryl knew Connor could tell his 'biggest fan' Daryl Dixon was actually his brother. It was how he wrote to him. Taking the initiative to send him a letter every time he got transferred instead of waiting for the mail to be forwarded.

Keeping the same address was hard because Daryl couldn't really stand his and Merle's father. Or their half-uncle. Or any of the family friends. But he had to, so Connor's letters would get to him. He needed those weekly updates on how he was as the years passed because he couldn't do anything to help. Not without giving himself away.

…

" _So his brother's never actually been in jail?"_

" _Nope. He's- You're more quiet than Merle. You're willing to throw down, but you don't generally start fights. You're more of a follower to Merle's lead. Mouthy, though. Sarcastic from the reports we have."_

" _What kind of reports have that shit in it?"_

" _All the good ones. Personality notes are important for profiling. The Dixon family is pretty much the epitome of the redneck stereotype. Merle actively encourages it. He's often a drugged up asshole, but he's smart. He knows how people are going to look at him and he uses that. You'll need to do the same."_

" _What? You want me to become some mini-Merle?"_

" _It wouldn't hurt."_

…

When the reports started coming in about the sickness and the strange deaths, Daryl sent a letter to Connor MacManus. It wasn't unusual for Daryl to make the offer that if Connor ever came out he could come for a visit. He knew it was stupid to say it because of Connor did get out, the authorities would look there first. Daryl had caught people watching him that weren't his people often enough to know they'd be there waiting. But he had to say it all the same.

The last letter he sent was both an invitation and a warning. If things got too bad and Connor managed to get out, Daryl wanted him going to Atlanta. To the refugee center people kept talking about. That was where he and Merle were headed. Along with most of the people in the small towns near their home. They'd be safe there. They had to be. For Connor's sake.

…

" _It's just you and me, brother. Ain't no one else gonna care about you. Not in this world. Not now."_

" _Shut up, Merle."_

" _You can't keep thinking about it. Got to move on. We're all that's left for each other. We got take care of each other. You know that. Tell me you know that."_

" _...I know that."_

" _Come on, now. Let's see if we can find someone that's got food. Make 'em share it."_

" _...yeah. Sure."_

…

His grief when he heard about Merle wasn't feigned. The tears started before he could stop them and the best he could do was wipe his face and pretend they weren't there while he demanded they tell him where he was. Connor wasn't coming. It'd been two months since things went down. Atlanta was gone. Smecker was gone. Bloom was gone. The only brother he had left was Merle.

It was worse when they found his hand on the roof. It was like getting punched in the gut and stabbed in the heart at the same time. He couldn't stop himself as the high-pitched, panicked 'no's escaped. Over an over again they left him and he didn't know if they were for Merle or Connor or anyone else. Maybe they were for himself.

…

" _Huntin' in the dark's no good. We'd just be trippin' over ourselves. More people getting' lost."_

" _But she's twelve. She can't be out there on her own. You didn't find anything?"_

" _I know this is hard, but I'm asking you not to panic. We know she was out there."_

" _And we tracked her for a while."_

…

After Merle disappeared the facade started to slip. At first he tried to overcompensate for it, going overboard with his words and accusations. Glenn stopping him from putting the bodies of good people in the fire with his insistence they bury their dead was a god send. A right old-fashioned sign from God that he needed to stay with those folks. They just couldn't know that.

And threatening to kill a good man just cause he was bit? 'No tolerance for walkers' as he'd said. Daryl had never felt more relieved than when Rick pulled that gun on him. Couldn't say as much, of course. He had an act to keep up. He had to be the person they all thought he was. If he just changed all of a sudden none of them would trust him. And he needed them to trust him even if everything they knew about him was based on a lie.

…

" _We took down a walker."_

" _A walker. Oh my god."_

" _There was no sign it was ever near Sophia."_

" _How can you know that?"_

" _We cut the sonabich open. Made sure."_

…

He broke down at the church. He couldn't keep it up. He hadn't been inside a house of God in months and it just hit him so hard once Carol sat down to pray. He collapsed into one of the back pews like he used to with Connor. Put his head down and brought his rosary out. He was out of practice, but the prayers came to his mind like he'd said them the day before.

After Carol went to sit with Lori and the rail was empty, he stood. Glenn and Rick, they thought he was getting ready to go. He could see it in the way they looked at him, Glenn holding the handle of his crossbow out for him to take it back. But he couldn't leave yet. He had to finish his prayers.

Daryl walked past, hands cupping his rosary and went to kneel in front of the rail. His eyes slid upward to the thorny crown. He wasn't as silent now, his prayers slipping out in mixed latin and irish. A hushed whisper, but it seemed to fill the otherwise silent church. All eyes were on him. God's eyes were on him.

The tears he hadn't let himself shed finally found their way out of him. He had to choke back a sob as he crossed himself and stood. He leaned for a moment against the rail to catch his balance and try to get control back. But God had him now. God had always had him and he should have looked to that more often in the last months.

Daryl clumsily stepped over the rail so he could fall to his knees directly in front of the cross. His right hand reached out ( _Aéquitas : Justice_ ) to touch the statue's ankle. He took a deep breath, then leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the wood. He imagined Connor next to him, doing the same. He imagined Merle awkwardly waiting for him hear the back of the church. Both his brothers were gone and now so was a little girl. He needed his faith now more than ever.

When he stood and turned, he found himself alone. The others had left. They were on the steps outside, sitting and standing. Facing away. They'd given him the privacy they thought his moment with God demanded. He didn't know what to think of that. Except perhaps that they were good people. Worth protecting.

Murphy took his rosary and tucked it inside his shirt as he got to the door. Wiped at his face and took the offered crossbow back from Glenn. Took a look around. Sneered and started back across the graveyard. "What the hell are ya'll waiting for? An invitation? We got a girl to find."


	2. Nebraska

Daryl sat with his back to the tree, ass in the dirt, as he worked on turning the thin branches into bolts. There wasn't a lot of good wood for it. He needed branches that were mostly straight for at least a foot and a half. He could whittle and sand them down until they were actually straight, but he needed something to start with first. They couldn't be knotted up or bend at the core.

The work had become routine and familiar within months of 'returning' to his family. Merle wasn't that good at the bow work, but he could skin a squirrel like no tomorrow. He'd pointed Daryl to their daddy and Uncle Jess. The men preferred rifles, but they'd all commented on how Daryl was a damn fine shot with his 'bow. And no real 'bow man would let himself run out of ammo even when he did.

He had to admit now, years later, that the work was soothing in it's own way. Gave him time to think while his hands did the work they'd been trained into. He didn't have to focus anymore. When he'd been 'relearning' it, he'd focused too much and ended up frustrated at his inability to get it right. Merle had taken it as Daryl's memory loss getting to him. Had been surprisingly supportive in his own way. Insulting, but supportive. He'd tried a lot harder than Daryl used to give him credit for. Highsight being 20/20 and all.

"Arrow," he sighed out, keeping his voice down so it didn't carry. He knew the others would avoid him now that they had no immediate reason to be around him. He didn't much like it, but it let him practice his languages in relative privacy. No one would be the wiser. "Sagitta. Freccia. Flèche. Cтрела. Flecha. Hwasal."

Use it or lose it. That was the problem with languages. You didn't use them, you'd lose them. Practice was important. With Connor, he hadn't had to force himself to find ways to practice. He could just start talking and switching between the many languages they knew and Connor would respond in kind. No thought to it. As easy as breathing.

And even before things went down, he'd found ways to keep those languages within his grasp. Not with Merle and certainly not with the rest of the family. But Daryl had been just sociable enough to head on into the nearby towns to grab a drink at a random bars. Places his relatives didn't frequent, nor did most of the redneck white trash he was supposed to be a part of.

Spanish and French were the easiest to keep going. A lot of spics holed up together as transient labor during the summer and fall as the Orchards bore their fruit and extra hands were needed to do picking while the picking was good. Those with a the Orleans creole background liked to come through, too. He mixed those up with Italian since they were all from the same language family. Confused the hell out of people sometimes when he switched over, but at least he was using it.

Irish wasn't as hard as he'd thought it would be. There was a bar a good hour drive down the highway. An actual Irish bar run by an actual Irish immigrant. When Daryl had gone in there, he hadn't expected to hear the old lilt. And he almost left over the pang of pain and guilt and homesickness that clenched his heart. But he was playing at being a Dixon. Dixon's didn't run. What was it Merle was always saying? Dixon's ain't pussies? Yeah. That.

That night he'd had to force himself not to get drunk the way he used to. Only enough to feel warm and let himself relax with a smile as he argued in his native tongue over which fuck ass team was going to win whatever game was playing that night. He'd had himself a grand old time, as had the rest of the bar. Most of them didn't know him or anything about the Dixons and Daryl had ended up with a secret get away he could hit once or twice a month. A breath of his old life.

Latin he got his taste of in church. There weren't many of the Catholic faith close to him. Mostly baptist. Some protestant. But he'd found one and it was one that had a proper Sunday mass. He wasn't able to go every morning, early morning, like he'd done in Boston. But he could go on Sundays.

He lucked out on some German with an old lady at his church. She didn't remember much of her first language, having been in the states for a good 50 years and not using anything but English for a good half of that. What she did remember were specific anecdotes and turns of phrases. She'd snapped one out, got the grammar wrong, and he'd corrected her before he could catch himself. Then he'd smiled and told her she must be going senile if she was getting that wrong. The Sunday after she'd greeted him at the door with a smile and asked him to help her remember. He practically had help her relearn her own tongue. She was probably dead now.

Russian he'd had to get a fucking phone app for. Pretend he was listening to proper music while he streamed some foreign language podcasts and songs by Pussy Riot. It wasn't great, it wasn't nearly enough, but it kept the words in his head.

Daryl stopped his sanding and took a look at the bolts. That was the only part of making them that really took concentration. He couldn't just half-ass the inspection. Had to make sure they didn't curve or there weren't dips in the shaft that would pull them off target. He usually rejected a good half of any that got to that point in the process because of such imperfections. It was expected, the next step. After he'd selected the ones good enough to keep using, he started in on the fletching: the actual business of putting feathers on. Once again, his mind drifted.

Languages.

He spoke a new language now. One that he hoped Connor had gotten a chance to learn. He'd written to his brother that he was starting to pick it up three years back when a Korean family moved into town straight from Korea. Only the father spoke a lick of English. The wife and sons got made fun of and harassed by a lot of folks in town over it. But they didn't understand what was said and none of the insults got passed around in front of the father. The assholes his family hung out with thought it was funnier that way.

Daryl played along only so far as to not say anything against it. He kept himself quiet until he was out of earshot of daddy and Jess. Or Merle when he was around. If the family was still around at that point, he'd go over and offer help in simple English, treating his own words as broken as the family's. Made it easier on them.

They were suspicious at first. Even if they didn't know what was being said, they could understand an insult when they heard it. Tones were pretty universal. Eventually they recognized that he would wait until he couldn't be watched by the ones who insulted them. That he somehow felt like he was in as much danger as they were for harsh words. That he was in a greater danger for even harsher actions.

By then he'd picked up a new app for his phone: streamed Korean talk radio and a random K-Rock station. He didn't get an actual teaching program because that would have been too obvious. But the woman and her kids had started tentatively helping him learn words they knew. Pointed to objects and named them. Would make big gestures, like waving or pretending to eat or doing the potty dance, then say what it was. It was harder to learn, but it helped fill the time.

Daryl glanced over at the camp and wondered yet again if Glenn spoke Korean. Or if he was one of those second or third generation kids that only spoke English. He really wanted the practice, but that would mean admitting he knew Glenn wasn't a Chinaman. That he was being an asshole just to be an asshole. Which, yeah, most of them probably guessed, but actually  _admitting_  it just wasn't on his list of things to do. Not yet, anyway.

He sighed and mentally kicked himself. Sophia was done gone and buried and Carol had gone off who knows where and he was distracting himself with fucking languages. Like it somehow mattered anymore. Objectively it could matter. They could run into other survivors that didn't speak English well enough and Daryl might be the only one that could communicate with them.

He didn't really think that likely, though. Even the Greenes, Irish heritage that they had, didn't speak anything other than English. Best he could hope for was a spic just from the numbers alone.

Daryl would be better served practicing other skills. The ones that might be the difference between life and death for the rest of them. Like tracking. He bitterly thought that if he'd actually been doing that since he was old enough to see (the way Merle tells it leastways), he just might have had a chance to get to Sophia before she was bit.

Lori found him in the long hours of his work as the day turned to evening. They had maybe an hour of daylight left. He hadn't expected anyone to come and look for him for a few days after what had happened that morning at the barn. He'd pretty much outed himself as being unstable. Almost showed his true colors. Well, showed them in full. He'd done a pretty good job of making it clear he wouldn't hesitate to kill Shane if he felt it necessary.

…

" _We can't go," Rick protested the call to head to Fort Benning._

" _Why, Rick?" Shane shook his head, questioning his friend. He was questioning Rick more and more lately. "Why?"_

" _Because my daughter's still out there," Carol answered, aghast as the others nodded in agreement._

" _Okay. Okay," Shane took a deep breath and ran his hands over his head. When he let it out, he was trying to sound reasonable, "Carol I think it's time we all started to just consider the other possibilities."_

_Lori let out a hissed 'Shane!' while Rick stood firm, "We're not leaving Sophia behind"_

_Daryl was happy for their support, of course. But he was more than a little insulted that the asshole was suggesting they just up and leave. "I'm close to finding this girl," he growled out, pointing toward the forest for emphasis, "I just found her damn doll a few days ago."_

" _You found her doll, Daryl," Shane bit back. "That's what you did. You found a DOLL."_

" _You don't know what the hell you're talking about!" Daryl shouted back and closed on him. He was stopped by Rick's arm. Pulled himself up short before he got within a foot of it. He respected Rick enough hold himself back. He didn't really want to, but he wasn't out to hurt Rick._

_Shane was itching for fight, though. "I'm just saying what needs to be said! You get a good lead the first 48 hours..." He shook his head and laughed a bit manically, looking to Daryl "Let me tell you something else, man! If she was alive out there and saw you coming, all methed out with your buck knife, geek ears around your neck, she would run in the other direction!"_

_Daryl saw red and yelled at him to shut up, half-jumping at Shane only to be intercepted by Rick's body. His arm lands on the man's back and if he hadn't been being pushed off balance he would have used it to vault at Shane._

_A lot more yelling ensued and it ended up being Shane that needed multiple people to hold him back as he screamed at Daryl. Rick and Andrea and even Lori put themselves between the pacing man while Daryl stood there waiting. Not calm, not really. But a lot more put together than Shane was._

" _I'll beat your ass!" the man kept shouting, "You don't come at me!" It took a good minute for him to calm down enough to start walking away, glaring at Lori and Rick and looking a little too crazy-eyed for Daryl's liking. But it wasn't Shane that the others were looking to like they had to watch for trouble. It was still the redneck getting the blame. The suspicion._

_Daryl figures that's what did it for him. Why he spoke into the heavy silence that followed. Why he let his words bite so hard._

" _Yeah. You can walk away from a little girl, but Carl gets shot and you kill a man for him."_

_Shane stopped short and what few heads hadn't been turned to Daryl whipped around to look at him in horror. The ex-cop did a slow turn around, "What you say?"_

_Daryl's lip curled and he lifted his chin, "You heard me. You're were willin' ta kill Otis for Carl's sake. But you can't play nice for Sophia's?"_

" _Daryl," Rick said in that pained voice Daryl was starting to hate because for some reason it reminded him of Connor when his brother was genuinely hurt. "Otis chose to stay behind. Shane can't be responsi-"_

" _Oh like hell he did," Daryl snapped, pointing at the killer. "Fucker says Otis stayed behind to cover his ass but he comes back with a gun that ain't his. Some trumped up story about sacrifices when the sensible sacrifice would have been Shane staying behind 'cause he's the one that can't run worth a damn on that ankle."_

_Daryl got into Rick's face, angry at the man for letting himself be so blind to it, "You can't put two and two together, it's 'cause you don't want to."_

" _If you really thought that," Dale broke in, on hand up as if begging everyone to calm down. The man actually looked desperate for Daryl to be right and Daryl was pretty sure he had to be reading that wrong. "Why didn't you say anything before?"_

" _Because it saved Carl," he answered, looking at his feet and letting his shoulders drop. The fight gone out of him for the moment. He wasn't intending to let them see more of what he really was, but it wasn't like he could lie about it to them, either. "It saved the boy. And the life of an innocent child in this world is worth more than that of any sinner."_

_He licked his lips and lifted his head to look directly at Shane, a promise of retribution in his eyes, "I overlooked the murder of a good man for the sake of a child's life. But you best believe I won't overlook the abandonment of a little girl."_

_Shane had the gall to laugh. No shame in him. "And what would you do to me, Daryl? Let's say for the sake of your crazy theory that I did kill Otis and he didn't die because he was a good man who did a good thing. What would you do to me, Daryl?"_

_Daryl met his challenge with deadly seriousness, "I'll put you on your knees and fill your head so full of the Lord's righteous justice it'll be comin' out your eyes. That ain't supposition. That's a fact."_

…

"I need you to run into town," was the first thing out of Lori's mouth. A demand. Like he was hers to command. A fucking court jester or something. "Glenn and Rick aren't back with Hershel yet and Beth's collapsed. They're taking too long, I need you to go and get them and-"

"Why don't you get them yourself, Olive Oyl!" he snapped, standing up as he tossed the rejected bolts away. "Let a man have his peace."

Lori's mouth worked before pressing into a hard line, "I can't."

Daryl couldn't help the roll of his eyes as he turned back to her, "What? You sick now? How about you send your boyfriend, then? Get him to find your husband."

"That's uncalled for!" she said sharply and she was right. But Daryl wasn't feeling like having people who looked at him like he was so much shit on the bottom of their shoe telling him what to do. He didn't bother to answer, just started to walk away.

"I don't trust him!" Lori called out. When he turned to look at her over his shoulder, she looked just as surprised at her words as he did. But she managed to get her composure back enough to bridge the space between them and speak in a low, scared tone. "I don't trust him. This morning... what you said about him and Otis. I... I don't know if it's true, I don't, but the way he's been... The way he's treated me and Carl... I don't trust him to get Rick. And I don't trust him to stay here and watch Carl for me. Not anymore."

She glanced up at him only briefly, the fingers of one hand curled into her neck. The rest of the time, her words were said as if she were whispering to them to the ground. Lori took a deep breath and pressed her hand against her mouth.

Daryl stared for a long moment, noting the way she held herself. The way her arms had tightened in to hug her chest and make herself so much smaller. He licked his lips in thought and tilted his head, "What way he been treating you and Carl?"

She gulped hard and shook her head, looking to the side and not even trying to be subtle about avoiding eye contact, "It doesn't matter right now."

"Sure it does," he protested, voice gentle as he stepped into her personal space and put a hand to her elbow. He didn't try to keep it there when she jerked herself away, that free hand once more going to curl at the skin of her neck. His eyes tightened at the gesture, suddenly reminded of the strange cuts Shane had been sporting the morning they woke up in the CDC. "He try to touch you?"

Lori shook her head and turned her back to him.

"He try to touch Carl?" His tone was hard. He had tolerated what Ed put Carol through because of Merle and hated himself for it. He wasn't going to stand around and do nothing this time around.

"No!" She was quick to answer, a shudder running through her as fought to keep herself together. "No. He's never touched Carl. He... he did try to touch me. Once. When he was drunk. He stopped when I told him no, though. So... he's not like  _that_ , Daryl. I just... I want to stay here were I can keep an eye on Carl. And of everyone, you're the only one that-"

Daryl moved in again, stepping up to lean over her shoulder. Not touching, but barely. "I'm the only one that what?"

Lori shut her eyes, hung her head, took a deep breath. Then she turned around and smiled up at him, "You're the only one I know who won't give up on finding someone. It didn't work out for Sophia, and I know that hurts you as much as it does Carol, and if things have somehow gone crazy it might be the same for Rick now." She held back a sob, clearly hating herself for thinking that. "But you'll find him and Glenn and Hershel. You'll bring them back. Any way you can. I  _know_  that."

She was right.

…

“A fuckin' asshole that Shane is,” He said to himself as he rode Merle's bike along the empty road. Allowing his accent to slide back into place only when it could be lost beneath the sound of the engine and the roar of the wind. “Asshole. Мудак. Le con. Culus. Stronzo. Arschlock. Hangmun. Gilipollas. Cúl tóna.”

 


	3. Executioner

A little over a week had passed since they brought the kid, Randall back from town and the shootout. A little more than a week and only after a failed attempt to leave him somewhere did they think to ask about his group. The two assholes they'd shot up, Rick had said they were from Philly or somewhere to the east and up the coast. They'd gone and assumed the kid was the same.

Stupid is what it was.

Murphy practically kicked himself over it, but settled for kicking the kid. He wasn't usually one for torture, especially the dishing it out part. 'Cept he had a lot of pent up aggression and a good seven years of tolerating the deeds of the filth wallowing in sin around him and when that asshole said he watched two women get raped – _watched_ – and did nothing to stop it.... Well, Murphy hadn't exactly felt inclined to hold himself back on the venting of frustrations.

The group was gathered at the camp when he wandered back from the shed they'd tied the boy up in. He saw Rick lift his chin and look past the others to him. He took his time ambling back, taking in the expectant, worried faces. He never did like breaking bad news.

“Boy there's got a gang,” Murphy said evenly, his southern drawl a little thicker than nessecary as he tried to focus on who he had to be, not who he wanted to be. “30 men. They got heavy artillery and they ain't looking to make friends. They roll through here, our boys are dead.” He paused for a second, looked around at Lori and Andrea. Carol. “And our women, they're gonna... they're gonna wish they were.”

There was brief moment of disquiet and Carol looked to him, brow knitted in worry at the sight of his bloody knuckles, “What did you do?”

“Had a chat,” he answered with a shrug, trying to hide how ill at ease her look made him. It was strange having a woman care about him the way she was. All motherly and sisterly both. Not something he was used to. Even his Ma hadn't been like that. She'd been as belligerant as her boys and with as bad a mouth. Or worse, depending on who was asked. Carol made him miss her. He didn't need the reminder that she was just as likely to be dead as everyone else he used to know.

Rick nodded, exchanged a glance with Shane, and said, “No one goes near this guy.”

Murphy dipped his head, thinking that was that. Maybe Rick needed time to weight his options. Chat with the asshole that coveted his wife and figure out what the group was going to do. Move, probably.

Lori had other ideas. She walked right up to her man and looked him in the eyes, “What are you going to do?” He had to amire her willingness to force the issue. She'd always had a bit of a backbone to her, but since that night she'd sent him out to get her husband, Lori had started really showing it. She wasn't taking shit from anyone anymore. Decided not to let things fester.

Rick took a deep breath and Murphy was a little surprised to realize the man had already decided, “We have no choice. He's a threat. We have to eliminate the threat.”

“You're just gonna kill him?” Dale objected. He was the only one looking all that upset.

Rick nodded and met the mans eyes, “It's settled. I'll do it today.”

“No, you won't.” Murphy's words stopped the quiet bustle of the camp cold. He dropped his crossbow and looked up to see Rick giving him one of those confused looks and Dale's face relaxing with relief.

He snorted and rolled his eyes, “Don't look so happy, old man. Jus' cause Rick ain't gonna do it, doesn't mean it won't get done. I'm gonna kill him.”

“I can't ask you-” Rick started and Murphy cut him off as he pulled his gun and checked the ammo, “You ain't have to. I'm volunteering.”

“Why would you do that,” Dale asked, white as a sheet and staring at Daryl like he didn't know him. And he didn't. Daryl wasn't Daryl. He was Murphy. And Murphy had a mighty need to reap that boy's soul in the name of the Lord.

He didn't say that aloud, though. He didn't look at Dale. He kept his eyes on Rick. “How many men you killed?”

Rick's eyes shut with guilt and he couldn't return Murphy's gaze as he answered, “Two. Just the two.”

Murphy nodded, glanced around the camp, “Yeah. That's what I thought. I'm gonna do it. Won't be long.”

“You're going to do it right now?” Dale gasped at the same time Carol protested with a “You can't!” and a thin hand on his arm.

He put his own hand over hers and gently removed it, smiling as he murmured, “S'okay. Won't damn my soul no more than it already is. I'm gonna do the Lord's work today.”

“The Lord's work,” Shane muttered, rolling his eyes.

Murphy's head whipped around, surprised at that, “You objecting? 'Cause it sure looked like you were with Rick on this.”

“I am with Rick,” the man answered, running his hands over his head before putting them on his hips. “I'm just amazed you have the gall to call your bloodlust 'the Lord's work'. You wanna kill a man, you don't need to pretty it up. Everyone knows you're a killer. Ain't got a hide it.”

Rick put his hand to Shane's chest, “That's enough. No one here is enjoying what's got to be done.”

“Oh no,” Murphy interrupted, drawing Rick's eyes back to him. “He's right. I am gonna enjoy this. That asshole sat back and watched a couple girls get raped while their daddy was forced to watch. I'm damn sure gonna enjoy putting him on his knees and reapin' his soul for the good Lord to judge. Been too long since I got to bring justice down on men like him.”

He knew he'd said the wrong thing when the silence that followed was filled with the shuffle of people unconciously stepping back from him. Shane looked like he'd just won the lottery and Rick... he looked sick. They were all seeing Murphy now. Not that Murphy couldn't be a gentle soul, he was as much as Daryl was, but Murphy was the one the Lord had charged with the task.

“Destroy that which is evil.” He slid his gun into it's holster and started to walk off. “So that which is good may flourish.”

Murphy hadn't gotten ten feet when Rick stopped him with a question, “How many people have you killed?”

“93,” he answered, turning back. He met Rick's eyes, speaking the truth calmly, “I've killed 93 men.”

Rick glupped and Murphy could see him starting to judge him. See him struggling to understand why that number was so high (not high enough) and why it came so easily to him. He could see Lori staring at him and trying to figure out how he could have done that and still be so hell bent on saving a little girl he barely knew. Why she could trust he wouldn't stop to get any of their people back. He could see Carol looking at him sadly, like he'd just gone and ripped her heart out with disappointment. And of course Shane was grinning. As if every bad thing he'd ever thought about Daryl had just been proven true.

And Murphy thought in that moment that he'd just destroyed any chances he had to stay and protect those people. He didn't really blame them. He just had to protect them one last time before he left. He'd kill the kid and go.

“Why?”

Glenn asked that. God Bless Glenn Rhee. He always did ask the important questions.

Murphy looked to him and shrugged, “”Cause they were bad men. Murders. Mafiosos. Rapists. Drug dealers. Scum of the earth that the system kept letting off the hook because they had the money and charisma to talk their way out of jail time.”

“A vigilantee,” Shane scoffed, disgusted as he turned to Rick. “He's a fucking vigilantee religious psyco freak. Didn't I tell you he was trouble? Didn't I?”

Rick didn't give Shane the satisfaction of looking in his eyes. He kept his gaze steady on Daryl. And Murphy met it without shame. Though he figured he should probably clarify just a little, since he was being given the chance.

“Never broke the rules,” he continued a little softer. He liked these folks. Most of them. He didn't like seeing them look at him that way even if he felt no shame for his work. “No innocents, No women. No children. Never touched anyone that I didn't know for sure harbored evil in his soul. I _never_ broke the rules.”

Shane laughed. He laughed and he waved his hand like he'd already won the unspoken war that had been simmering between them since the day they opened the barn. “Man, just take care of it and go. Everyone knows your colors now. Get it done with and get.”

Murphy didn't look at him. He looked to Rick. The other man continued to meet his gaze and Murphy ended up being the one to break it as he turned and got back to walking. He'd take care of things and go.

No one saw him do it but the sound of the gun cracked through the air of the still farm, so everyone heard it when it happened. He was left alone for the job and Randall died with a single bullet to his heart. He was laid out for burial (or disposal) with a dirty penny and a nickle over his eyes and his arms crossed over his chest. A clean execution. Murphy apologized for the lack of proper coin and said a second prayer that the boatman would understand.

He left the body in the shed, as cleaned up as he could. He didn't know what their plans for the body was and didn't want to presume. Just based on how the walkers in the barn had been handled, they probably wouldn't want to bury the kid on the farm. Would either burn him or take the body out to the other side of the highway and toss it.

With his job done, Murphy headed back over to the camp. He'd left his crossbow near the fire earlier and would need to grab it before he could think about packing up. With his tent further out, near the wood pile, he figured he'd be left to pack in peace. He didn't really want to disturb anyone, and if hadn't left his 'bow where he did, he wouldn't have ventured near them.

Carol was stirring the stew pot for the mid-day meal and Lori was hanging the wash out to dry. Dale was on the roof of the RV. The rest of the group were scattered somewhere else, where Murphy couldn't see them. Helping out with the chores, most likely. Maybe a little early harvesting.

“Hey uh,” he stopped near the fire, bending down to grab his 'bow and talk to Carol. He didn't look at her, his eyes instead falling to the ground. The dirt at his feet. “I left 'im in the shed. Wasn't sure where Hershel would want him off to. If he said anything about it to you, I can move him before I go?”

“He didn't say anything,” Carol answered quietly, her voice tight. “And you can wait 'til after lunch to go out.”

Murphy glanced her way, unable to look at her face for very long despite his curiosity, “You want me to stay for lunch?”

She gave him an exasperated look, complete with a soft exhale of patience frayed a little too thin, “You didn't have breakfast. You have to eat something.”

“She's right,” Lori spoke up as she joined them at the fire and set a second pot at the edge to boil water in. “Can't go out hunting after the morning you had on an empty stomach.”

“Hunting?” he asked, even more confused. They thought he was going hunting?

Carol and Lori shared a glance before Carol spoke, disapproval in her tone, “You just said you were going out. Unless Rick gave you something else to do?”

Murphy shook his head and then rubbed at his chin, trying to process that. It was like they were expecting him to go about his business as usual. Like they _weren't_ expecting him to leave. Which didn't make a lick of sense. Shane had pretty clearly told him to get and no one had protested.

He set his 'bow back down and took the lawn chair he'd been claiming for meals, “Guess I can stay for lunch. How long 'til it's ready?”

“Probably another ten minutes,” Carol sighed. “The wind's been making it hard to get even heat.”

Lori stood up, smoothed her hands down her pants and directed a thin smile his way. She was clearly forcing it. “You need anything cleaned? I can grab it from your camp while the water boils. Or you can go get it if you don't want me over there.”

Murphy chewed at a thumb and finally asked, “Ya'll don't want me to leave?”

Lori sighed, took a deep breath and sighed again, “I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous about having you here. But no, we don't want you to leave. You've done right by all of us, Daryl. Rick sees that.”

“What about Shane?” he titled his head, glanced toward the RV. “What about Dale?”

Carol snorted, “What about them?”

Shane hadn't been impressing her for a while now and made no bones about it. Lori was in the same boat. Her ill ease about Shane had only grown over the last week. She couldn't keep Rick away from his friend, but she did her best to distance herself and Carl.

“Look,” Lori said as she stepped around the fire to take a seat next to him. “Carol and I and Glenn and Andrea and Maggie and T-Dog and most everyone, really... we talked it over while you were doing what needed to be done. Not long, but enough to come to a consensus of sorts. I don't... I don't approve... of what you've done. But you did it before you were with us. And... for all that you make me nervous, I still trust you.”

“You were honest, Daryl,” Carol added. “You didn't even think about lying when you answered. You just... you answered. You didn't try to hide it. You didn't try to make nice about it. You didn't even try to justify it until Glenn asked you why. It's... I'm not happy about it either. And it hurts to know you can do that so easily. But... you didn't lie.”

Murphy kept his eyes down while they talked. His gaze on the tattoo across his right trigger finger. He wasn't really seeing it though, because he couldn't for the life of him figure out a better response to that than a soft, “Thanks.” And it just didn't seem enough in exchange for their acceptance. However hesitant it currently was.

“Besides,” Carol went on, sniffing and shaking her head. “It'd be pretty hypocritical of us to condemn you for killing anyone when most of us were in support of that young man being killed.”

Murphy glanced to Lori and she was nodding along. Another sigh took her and she stood up, “So. Laundry?”

He smiled despite the uncertainty and shook his head, “Naw. My stuff can wait a couple more days. Jus' get it all dirty while I'm out catching squirrel anyway. Don't need it gone through more'n once a week.”

…

Lunch was a somber affair. Most of the group was there, Glenn and Shane the noticeable absentees. Glenn had to be with Maggie because the two of them were attached at the hip anymore. Shane had given the sight of Daryl relaxed and already eating a disgusted look and volunteered to go take care of Randall's body before it started to stink.

Small talk was mostly forgotten, though at one point Rick had asked him if he had any other secrets he wanted to tell them about.

“No,” he'd answered.

“No?” Rick had followed with. “That's the only secret you had? Killing 93 men? That's it?”

He'd shook his head, “Nope. Got plenty of other secrets. Jus' none I want to share.”

Rick had given him one of those looks of his, like he was trying to see right through him. See his soul and how black it might be.

“If there's something you want to know,” Daryl had said as he licked his fingers clean. “You can ask it. But I ain't volunteering. No reason to.”

Rick had continued his stare for a while before finally nodding. And that seemed to be that.

It would have been nothing worse than a supremely awkward meal if not for the scream that shattered the peace.

Everyone with a gun or a weapon was up and running toward the sound within seconds. Rick had lingered only long enough to direct Lori, Carl, and the others who weren't exactly combat ready to hole up in the RV. Then he was off like a rocket, trailing behind Daryl and Andrea.

“Think it came from the shed,” Daryl called out to Glenn and Maggie and Hershel as the three joined them from the house.

“It sounded like Patricia,” Hershel yelled back, falling to the rear as the group pulled up short just outside the shed.

The sight that met them was as confusing at it was impossible. Randall, who Daryl had shot in the chest, was a walker. And he was gnawing on a now dead Patricia. Guns were leveled at the geek, but Glenn was the one to get up close and slam his machete into it's head as it sat there distracted by it's meal. Patricia was given her final death a little more cleanly: Daryl slid a knife into the back of her head just to the side of the spinal cord. Severed the brain stem and didn't make more of mess of her face. She deserved that much.

“When did he get bit?” Maggie asked as she helped Glenn roll Randall's body over.

Daryl shook his head and started searching him right away. “Don't know. Didn't see no bite.”

“There has to be a bite,” Glenn said, bending down to help.

The two of them searched Randall from top to bottom, even going so far as to cut most of his clothes off. “He weren't bit,” Daryl announced as the last of the kid's shirt was tossed to the side and his body turned over. He stayed knelt down and looked up at Rick, still shaking his head, “The only real wounds are the one in his leg, the cuts from the cuffs, and the one I killed him with. Not even a scratch on him that could have done it. Nothing festering and black.”

Further conversation was cut off as two gun shots rung out in quick succession. Andrea let out a gasp, “I think that came from the camp.”

“Lori,” Rick's voice shuddered out of him before he was running and screaming, “LORI! CARL!”

The mystery of Randall was forgotten for the time being as everyone followed after. Daryl had the sick thought that walkers had gotten that far without being seen. Dale was a good lookout, but he could only look in one direction at once. He expected to see a couple of dead walkers and had to hope none of their people had gotten bit.

What he didn't expect to see was Dale clutching his hand to his chest as he bled out against the side of the RV and Carl standing stock still with a gun raised in the air, still pointing in the direction he'd shot to kill Shane. Lori was in Carol's arms, the woman having collapsed in shock it seemed. At least from the blank way she was staring at Shane's body where it lay prone only a couple feet from her.

Carl looked to his dad, shaking and nearly in tears as the gun fell from his hands, “I'm sorry. He tried to take us. I didn't know what else to do.”

…

There wasn't much relief to be found after that. Murphy said his prayer silently for Dale and Shane and Daryl was forced to put them both down again after Shane got up the same as Randall had. Dale hadn't risen again when Daryl's knife slid home. But after seeing two people get up without being bit, no one questioned his precaution.


	4. Beside the Dying Fire

They lost the farm a week after Shane got himself gunned down by Carl. A herd came down from the highway just like that first one that made them lose Sophia. Only it was bigger, more spread out. Like a bunch of smaller streams converging to make a river right where the farm was. A river of blood and tears that drowned the land and their spirits.

What drew the herd no one was ever sure of. Could have been the sound of the wind vane clattering away a little too loudly. Maybe one of the engines echoing just far enough out. Even the groaning of a smaller group drawing the attention of one too many others. With the world gone quiet, one sound was as likely as the next if it rung out too far. Hell, it could have been the smell of the cattle. Fifty head was a lot of cows, a lot of walking meals for the eternally hungry.

None of them had ever discussed what they'd do if the farm was overrun. If they had to give it up. Mostly because none of them thought they'd have to actually do that. Food and water had been put in the basement and plans were made to try and contain or deal with herds the size of the ones that took Sophia. But they hadn't thought they'd ever have to face more than that. They ended up being so very wrong.

Despite that oversight, they all ended up back at the highway. Where they'd left food for Sophia nearly a month before. So much had changed since then.

“Where's the rest of us?” Daryl had asked, looking around at the much smaller group when it seemed they'd all gathered and pulled in.

They were now 'us' to him. They were his. The way Connor had been. Da. Rocco and Romeo. Greenly. Merle. All his. A part of him.

…

The place they chose to camp for the night wasn't exactly the safest. But it was all they had. T took the long watch while Rick patrolled. Daryl took it upon himself to maintain the fire and occasionally search out firewood once every couple hours. It was quiet for the first part of the night, but there was tension and distrust in the air. Everyone on edge. Everyone riled up and worried. Their safety net broken.

Carol was the first to voice it. She looked over at him with those eyes of hers that made him think of his Ma and of Connor at the same time. Some weird mix of the two. She waited until Rick was far enough on his small patrol that he had a good chance of not hearing her murmur, “Why do you need him? He's just going to pull you down.”

Daryl couldn't tell what she was looking for in saying that. Rick hadn't steered them wrong so far. Even if he'd gotten a bit on the unhinged side after Shane's first and final attempt to steal his family from him. The man had reason to be paranoid. To harden his heart against the world.

“Nah,” he shook his head and fed another stick to the fire, “Rick's done alright by me.”

“You're his henchman,” Carol said, lips curling like it was a personal offense. Then she sighed, taking the blame for herself somehow, “And I'm a burden. You deserve better.”

He deserved better? Yeah, maybe. But he wasn't complaining about what he had. The group was his and he was theirs. None of them were burdens and he sure as hell wasn't a 'henchman'. He did what Rick asked him to because the two of them had an understanding. A respect for each other.

Daryl pouted a little, lips twisting into a frown as he eyed her, confused. She'd been giving Rick the stink-eye every so often, but he had trouble wrapping his head around the way she was talking. “What is it you want? From him or me?”

“A man of honor,” she said so quietly, like a wounded animal whimpering, no longer sure of itself.

Daryl shook his head and let out a sigh of his own, “Rick has honor. I wouldn't follow him if he didn't.”

She took a deep breath and picked up one of the sticks he'd brought back, played with it for a moment while her eyes searched the darkness around the camp for outline of Rick's figure. He knew she was waiting for him to pass by again because she didn't speak until he had come and gone. She looked up at him, “He used to have honor. I'm not so sure about him anymore.”

“Why?” It was Hershel that asked, looking at Carol from the other side of the fire.

Carol bit her lip for a moment, kept her voice low, “The way he's been... the way he's been controlling everything... it reminds me of Ed.”

“He ain't Ed,” Daryl answered immediately, tone hard. Hurt, even. It surprised Carol. He could see it in how she looked at him. He turned his head away and let his gaze linger on the stars. “Ed was the kind of man I would have given to the Lord. Before. Rick's not like that. He's... he's controlling, yeah. But he's not doing it for the sake of control. And he's not hurting us to keep us in line. He's trusting us to trust him. If we wanted to go, if we tried to go, he wouldn't stop us.”

He looked back to Carol and she met his gaze, a hand on her mouth as she fought to hold in her tears. She wasn't really against Rick. He could see it in her. She was just scared, her safety net shattered. Same as the rest of them. Only she didn't have anyone specific to hold on to. Not the way the Greene's had each other or Glenn had Maggie. Lori and Carl had each other. Even T-Dog could find support in Rick and Lori and Glenn. Daryl had thrown his lot in with Rick pretty fast, too, so he had that to fall on.

But Carol was still trying to find her place among them. He felt bad for not realizing that. For not seeing it. She'd seemed to be handling everything so well. Comparatively. But inside she was breaking apart. He'd forgotten how hard it was for someone who came from where she had to get a semblance of a life back. Even Merle, tough son of a bitch he was, had turned to drugs to help him get through his traumas. And Carol was just...

Murphy planted his butt on the ground and put his crossbow to the side. He held his arms open, invited her to join him silently. She did so, crawling the few inches that separated them to curl up against his chest.

“Go on and cry now if you need it, darlin',” he murmured, resting his cheek on the top of her head. He rubbed her back gently. But she didn't cry. She held it in. That was fine, too. If all she needed was the reassurance, the support, then that's what he'd give her.

That's what Murphy would give all of them. Whatever they needed him to. They were his.

…

“Herd's three day's walk behind us, assuming nothin' calls 'em off our ass,” Daryl said as he climbed off his bike and pulled the gas can out of his saddlebag. “We don't got a lot of time to stay here, but we can use the break to do some huntin' in the woods and a couple runs to that shoppin' center a mile west of here.”

“You think it'll be safe for two people?” Rick asked as he pulled the map onto the hood of the car and made a quick note in pencil.

“Safe enough,” Daryl shrugged. “Glenn and me, we could hit it easy. He's good with that knife you know.”

Rick snorted, the side of his mouth twisting up. He brought a hand up to rub at his lip, “Yeah. I know. Probably better with it than anyone else here. 'Cept maybe you.”

Daryl grinned back and handed the gas can off to T-Dog, who took it over to Carol. She and Lori had the best handle on how and when to distribute the important supplies. The truck was running close to fumes and the car wasn't much better. But deciding which one got how much of the five gallon can Daryl had brought back was something the group collectively left to them. Even Rick, in charge as he was, knew he had to delegate that. They both had better heads for those kinds of numbers.

“I've had more time to practice,” he laughed. “Maybe I should teach him how to throw.”

Rick tilted his head, giving him one of those 'got an idea' looks, “Maybe you should. Everyone else, too. If they show a talent for it.”

Daryl shrugged, not opposed to the suggestion, “Maybe. If we can find a place to stay for longer than a couple days.”

“We're working on it,” Rick assured him and waved him closer to take a look at the map with him. He pointed to a place east of them, “Maggie found an old phone book while you were out. There's a public storage listed. Supposed to be around here. Not exactly accommodating, but they have tall fences and the containers are usually decently sized with heavy doors that are easy to secure. We could make a home of it for a month or two, over the new year.”

“Just a month or two?”

Rick raised his hands, keeping them open, “Not sure if it's sustainable. It's possible shelter, but that still leaves food and water and heat. Don't know anything about the town it's in.”

Daryl leaned over, tracing his finger from where Rick had marked the last herd to the public storage, “Twenty miles. We ain't got the gas for that if there's anything blocking the roads.”

He wasn't questioning the move, of course. They didn't question Rick's decisions anymore. That was the rule. But bringing up issues that could effect the outcomes, that was okay. It was expected, even. Each of them had their own strengths, things they knew more about than the others. Rick expected them to voice problems they could see. He might still decide to go for it sometimes, take risks, but they were informed decisions. As informed as they could be.

“You said the herd's three days out by foot. You can take a look, find us a way through as far as you can with what daylight's left,” Rick said, rolling the map up and holding it out to him. “We'll get the cars inside the garage over there, make it our camp.”

Daryl took the map, nodding, “Can I take someone with me? I ain't never been out that way.”

“Might as well take Glenn with you,” Rick agreed.

“Was thinkin' Maggie, actually.” Rick raised an eyebrow, mouth open in slight surprise and Daryl shrugged, “She's better with a rifle.”

Rick gave that some thought before nodding and turning around. He gave a sharp whistle and the whole group turned to look, waiting for orders, “Maggie. Grab a rifle and a box of rounds. You and Daryl are scouting as far as you can to that public storage. Find us a path through.”

She hurried over to the back of the truck where Carol was already getting the ammo ready for her. The rest of the group returned to their tasks. Daryl to his bike. Two months since the farm fell and even with all the danger, they were still doing okay. Hungry more often than not. But they got by. They were together. Alive. Wasn't much more any of them could really ask for.

…

“Think it's New Years yet?” Beth asked, leaning into her father as they all huddled around the fire. By their best guess it was either New Years Eve or the day before. They didn't have a calendar anymore and tracking the days had gotten confusing at times.

“It will be in the morning,” Carol smiled at her. “Or close enough we can start counting the days properly again. I'm more worried about what happens in February. I can't remember if it's supposed to be a leap year or not.”

The group laughed collectively at that. It was such a mundane worry. One they didn't get to have very often anymore.

“Sure. It's New Years,” Rick said in the comfortable silence that followed. “Anyone know Auld Lang Syne?”

Beth smiled and pushed herself up, brushing her hair away from her face, “I know the first verse. That's it.”

“Only verse worth knowin',” Daryl murmured from the corner where he sat with his knees tucked up to his chest. He was rubbing his fingers along the tattoo on his right hand. Tracing the letters. “It's a drinking song.”

Maggie grinned at him and elbowed Glenn mischievously, “It sounds like you know the words, then.”

Murphy's eyes lifted to find the group watching him. Waiting on him. He let out a soft sigh and shook his head to a chorus of 'come on' and 'sing it'.

“I'll start it,” Beth offered.

Murphy shook his head, “Nah. I ain't got a voice for it.”

“Daryl,” Rick's voice carried, quieted everyone. Made them look at him. He was smiling. “Most of us don't have a voice for it.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Is that an order, Officer?”

“It will be if it has to be,” Rick answered into the laughter that filled the small storage container.

Murphy couldn't help the grin that spread across his lips or the embarrassed blush that came with them all looking to him. Including him. Wanting to include him. He missed that camaraderie. He missed spending New Years with an arm wrapped around Connor's shoulder while they drunkenly sung the song in every language they knew. Switching out at every chorus or verse.

He brought a thumb to his mouth and chewed on it for a second, the atmosphere infectious. When he pulled his hand away, he let his legs fall to the side and he lifted his chin, almost as if challenging the room, “Alright. What language you want to hear it in?”

A round of surprised gasps met him. He figured it was a new year, with new starts. Why not let them know he spoke more than just English? Why not let who he was slip out a little more? He was still Daryl, but he was also Murphy. And if they could accept Daryl, well hell, they could accept Murphy, too.

“What do you know?” Maggie asked for them, leaning into Glenn, who settled his chin on her shoulder.

Murphy shrugged, “English. Latin.”

“No surprise there,” Hershel murmured and Murphy supposed that was true. He hadn't exactly hidden how often he prayed and most of the time his prayers were in mixed Latin and Irish. The latter of which was harder to pinpoint, but he expected Hershel could recognize the former well enough.

“Spanish. French. Italian,” he continued, holding up a finger for each one. “Russian. German. Irish...” He let himself linger off as if thinking hard. Then he looked up to meet Glenn's eyes and smirked. “Korean.”

“No way,” Glenn's denial was instant, like he knew it would be. “No way you know Korean. After all that shit you used to give me about being Chinese?”

Murphy dropped his hands, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged apologetically, “Geugeuo-e daehae geulae mian. Geulaedo nan manh-eun yeonsueb-i eobs-seubnida.”

The jaw drop from the kid was worth it. As was the wide eyes of everyone else looking between the two of them. Maggie hissed at her boyfriend, “Was that real? What he say?”

“He...” Glenn put a hand to his temple, as if his whole world had just been turned upside down. “He said sorry about the Chinese shit and that he doesn't have much practice.” His jaw worked a little more, somewhere between amazed and offended and maybe even a little proud. “This whole time? Do you know how long it's been since I got to hear that?”

Murphy ducked his head, “I wasn't sure if you knew any. Lots of folks don't know the language of their ancestors. Maggie don't know Irish.”

Maggie nodded, looking back at Glenn, “Daddy don't either. Or grandma or grandpa, when they were still alive.”

“Korean,” Glenn pointed a finger at him. “The whole thing. You're singing it in Korean.”

“And then German,” Carol said, smirking at him. “And then Italian.”

“Irish after that,” Hershel murmured, his old eyes soft, nostalgic. Like he'd heard the song that way once before, but it had been so long ago he could only remember how it'd made him feel.

Murphy groaned, pulling his head into his hands, “Ya'll are gonna ask me to sing it in all of them, ain't ya?”

Rick laughed, “I'll make it an order if I have to.” 


	5. Killer Within

The prison was a godsend. After nearly seven months of just trying to get by and the hordes of walkers joining each other like rain falling on glass, cutting the group off from security and food, the prison was just what they needed. It was shelter and safety. A place they could keep warm and plant roots. That double fence all around made it damn near perfect on coincidence alone. But God never gave anything freely. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. They were tested, so sorely tested those first few weeks.

…

Murphy's previous stint in the Hoag came in handy. The prison they found didn't have the same layout, but there were certain ways prisons were built. Generator rooms and laundry rooms and the Cafeteria and even the Infirmary, they were all kept decidedly separate from the cell blocks and had specific ways prisoners were allowed to interact and move between them. So none of the criminals could sneak off into one of those much needed side rooms and get themselves 'lost' on accident.

They got themselves set up in Cell Block C on the second day, still tired after their shoot out to secure the yard the first, and Rick was talking about pressing in as far as they could. To find the infirmary at least. He was looking at going through the wrong door, though. Sure, both would probably lead there, but one was more likely than the other.

“Should go the other way,” Murphy said, shaking his head as Rick was outlining the plan. The others looked at him. Rick looked at him. They were all waiting for him to elaborate.

He gestured to the windows, “Prisons like these. They keep the infirmary where there's a view. We follow the view, we'll get ourselves to the medicine quicker'n going through the tombs.”

“The tombs?” Beth was the first to ask as she helped lay out the weapons and what armor they'd stripped off the SWAT geeks not more than an hour before.

“The insides where light don't get,” Murphy answered. “What the inmates call 'em. Like catacombs. Tombs. Keep yerself to the light as much as you can an' you won't be lost in 'em.”

Most of the group hadn't stopped doing what they were doing despite looking up at him. Rick was really the only one holding still as he looked over, hands on his hips and his eyebrows raised. He titled his head to the side, “You been in here before?”

“Nah,” Murphy said with a shake of his head, “Not here. The Hoag. Up in Boston. Was there about a month. You know, for all the killin' I did.”

Seven months ago, Murphy wouldn't have dared say something like that. He wouldn't have dared to admit he'd served time because that on top of all the vigilante justice probably would have gotten him kicked out. But now? Well, he still wasn't telling them all his secrets, but they were long past judging him for what he'd done. No one so much as blinked at him over it.

Really, the most he got was an incredulous look from Glenn as the kid checked the riot gear a final time before helping Hershel into it, “Boston? That's a long way from here.”

Murphy shrugged, “It was going on eight years ago now, too.”

“A month is a short sentence for ninety-three deaths,” Rick added, tone conversational. Murphy knew that tone. The whole group knew it. It was the kind that said he was curious and would love to know more, but wasn't actually going to push on it. Because in the grand scheme of things, it really didn't matter.

“Didn't say I served my whole sentence, neither,” Murphy replied with a cheeky grin and a wink that got a laugh out of everyone. In another time and place that kind of talk would have them clutching their loved ones and cowering. But they just laughed, thought it was hilarious he'd escaped. His people had his back. God, did he love 'em.

“Someday,” Hershel said in the quiet that followed, glancing over to meet his eyes while Glenn and Maggie adjusted the final straps on his gear, “You'll have to tell me that story. How you got out.”

“Ain't much to it. Had some friends in the right places to break me out. How I got those friends, now, that's a story worth sharing 'someday',” Murphy grinned, gave a snort and did a final check of his knives before he looked up at Rick, “So we stickin' to the light?”

Rick nodded, “Yeah. We'll do that.”

“Good. Should be easy enough to clear a path through we can keep secure. Lock enough doors and we'll have ourselves a safe shot,” Murphy said. After a moment, a thought occurred to him, and he moved to climb up to the old crows nest over the common room. “You found keys up here, right?”

“Yeah,” Rick called after, voice distracted with his own final gear check. “On the dead guard. Why?”

Murphy ducked inside and did a quick look over the system. Most of it was door control and some cameras. A lot of lights that flashed alerts if certain parts of the prison had a security break. Signals for when to rotate the inmates. He crouched down, below the panel, and let his hand search semi-blindly for any kind of printed work. He didn't really expect to find an emergency manual for stupid guards (if the guards were working in the nest, they had to know their job pretty well already), but a quick look flash card for the rarer alerts might still be there. Phone extensions or radio codes.

He let out a soft 'booyah' of victory as found the short card he was looking for. When he came out, he took the steps down two at a time and held his prize out for Rick to take.

“What is it?” he asked, grabbing it and giving it a once over.

“That,” Murphy grinned, pointing to it a little more enthusiastically than he needed to. “Is our checklist. All them abbreviations and numbers, those are for what services this place used to have. The phone codes so the guards could call over transfers an' activity. Keep everything runnin' in a timely manner.”

He leaned in, putting his finger on the ones he named off, “Infirmary. Cafeteria. Warden's office. Ar-” Murphy paused, blinking. “Well the good Lord has smiled on us today. This place had itself an armory.”

“Okay,” Rick grinned back at him, looking around at the group and sharing that smile with all of them, “Okay. First priority is finding and securing the infirmary. Second is going to be the armory. Third is going to be the generators. Then the cafeteria. Might still have some food in it. Once we find the armory and whatever state it's in, we'll send Glenn and Carol on a run for food. Hopefully the cafeteria still has dry goods in it, but we need the weapons first, if we can get them. And the generators, if they're still working, will give us light so we don't have to wander the tombs in the dark.”

He waited a moment to make sure everyone understood, then nodded, “Alright. Let's go. Carl, keep the door locked until we get back.

…

Three days later they found the cafeteria they'd been looking for. But Hershel got bit and his leg had to be cut off to try and save him. In the middle of that clusterfuck, they met the only five surviving inmates. Rick wasn't too keen on keeping them around and neither was Daryl despite having known more than a few good men that got put on the inside. Himself included. T-Dog got upset at him when he didn't support the idea of maybe letting them earn their place.

Daryl knew he was being a bit of a hypocrite on that, but hell, he didn't know any of them or what they'd done to get put in. Sure, Big Tiny and that red-headed Axel guy, they were probably good people. Maybe even Oscar. But their leader, Tomas, set Daryl on edge. He talked big and waved his little peashooter around like it made him a bigger man than he was. Definitely trouble there. And the third black guy, Andrew, the way he looked around, eyes darting everywhere and at everyone, like he was looking for the best angle... Daryl just couldn't bring himself to trust him.

“My point is,” Daryl sighed, eyes sliding away from T's gaze as he shifted from one foot to the other, “is that they been in there together for as long as we've been together. Even if we could trust a few of them - and I got ideas on who that would be - they're loyal to their own. We offer to take even one of them in, we gotta offer to take all of them in. We can't divide them 'less they decide to divide themselves.” He didn't like sounding as if he didn't trust T's judgement. He trusted T with his life. But his friend had never been inside, had never had family inside, had never seen how things worked. How people grouped up even when they didn't like each other just because it was safer. Loyalties were forged in a very different way.

Rick rubbed at his eyes for a second, nodding along and T-Dog knew he was beat on this. It was good Rick was asking, but consensus was against him. The man shook his head and then nodded, “Okay. Fine. We don't let them stay with us or anything like that. But at least consider the idea of not sending them away? We have control of the prison, but that cafeteria, it's been theirs for the last ten, eleven months, right? We help them clear out a block and they can stay there. We get some of that food for helping clear it and letting them stay. No one has to die and we aren't writing their death certificates by sending them outside.”

Rick glanced over at Daryl and Daryl met his eyes, then shrugged. He had no real problem with that. Let them keep an eye on the men, too.

Rick then looked to T-Dog, stared for a moment longer, and gave a nod, “Okay. We offer this and if they accept we do it now. We get it done with and out of the way. A is the one that's broken on the other side, and D is right next door. So we'll clear B out for them and make them keep to themselves.” He paused for a second and met both T's and Daryl's eyes, “But if they don't accept and they refuse to leave, we eliminate the threat.”

Daryl didn't much like killing innocent men. Had never done it and he couldn't just assume that all five of those guys were guilty just because they were inside. T-Dog didn't like it, neither. But both of them knew that this was an order they couldn't object to. If it came down to an 'us or them' situation. Both of them were damn well going to protect their own.

…

Murphy was sympathetic about Big Tiny going out the way he had under Tomas' knife. Getting bit in the shoulder sucked and there really wasn't anything they could have done to save him. What they could have done, however, was made what time he had left peaceful.

So when Tomas got his head cleaved nearly in two by Rick for his poorly hidden attempt on Rick's life, there was no love lost for him. When Andrew ran off with their leader on his heels, leaving Murph to watch over Oscar and Axel (who had both dropped their weapons and put themselves on their knees to await judgement they knew was coming), he set about giving the man his last rights. Same as he'd stopped to do for Big Tiny before the group had moved on to the laundry room.

“What's that prayer you're saying?” Axel, who had proven to be a nervous talker, asked into the silence. “It's a pretty prayer. Is it the same one you said for Big Tiny? He was my friend, you know. Big Tiny. Not Tomas. I ain't really been with him. He'd pick on me a lot. But Big Tiny, he was a good man. You ain't saying the same prayer for both of them are you?”

Murphy looked up after he finished crossing Tomas' arms over his chest and putting a couple dirty pennies over his eyes. He had a small supply of them the carried on him now. Picked up over the last seven or so months since the farm. No one grabbed pennies (or any coins) when they scavenged through stores. No one but Murphy. No one else had a potential reason to use them.

He looked over at Axel and saw the man gulp, narrowed his eyes, curled his lip. Told him to shut up without saying a word. Axel went quiet for all of ten seconds before he started begging for his life again. Rick got back at that point and Murphy let him do the deciding. He wasn't exactly in the mood to be charitable even if he knew the two hadn't tried to raise a hand to them. If Rick told him he had to send two more bodies off to the Lord that day, he'd do it without guilt on his consciousness.

…

Just about a week passed before Hershel was up and walking around. Oscar and Axel were quiet during that time. Sometimes coming out to watch them through the fence between their block and the yard. Oscar remained silent, but Axel attempted to get a dialogue going every so often. He was calling through the fencing to Daryl, offering to help him tune up Merle's bike, when Hershel came out on crutches.

Daryl ignored the man and got up to greet his friend. A grin spreading across his face at the first really good thing to happen to them since they got to the prison. So of course that had to be ruined by walkers appearing from between Blocks C and D. Through the gate they'd chained up the second day they'd all gotten there and hadn't touched since.

His face fell and he barely had a warning out before the first of them reached for T-Dog. The man stumbled away, managing to escape the undead grasp as the prison's sirens sounded out. Oscar and Axel were up against the fence, fingers curling into it and trying to see. Oscar was yelling something about the generator room and Axel was begging for someone to open the gate because walkers had appeared behind them, trapping the two.

After that, it was just one crap pile after another. They lost T-Dog and Carol to the tombs. Found T's body, but not Carol's. Andrew, who they all thought was dead, attacked Rick in the generator room. Oscar took him out and earned Rick and Daryl's trust. And Lori died giving birth to a little girl.

Rick wasn't in any state to do anything after Carl and Maggie walked out with her. Hershel was looking at the girl like she would die in a few hours. Glenn was holding Maggie close and the two looked like they were mourning the baby already the same as Carl was mourning his mom.

“Screw this,” Daryl bit out, pushing aside the pain that was already threatening to choke him up. “Going to check that grocery we passed eight miles back for any formula. Ain't losing nobody else today.”

 _'The good Lord willing',_  he kept to himself. Because thus far, the good Lord hadn't been very willing. 


End file.
